Broom with a View (13 page)

“That’s wonderful. We can all travel together,” Cyril beamed. “I’ll send my man round after dinner to procure the tickets.”

“We wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you,” Vera interjected, although it was obvious Mr. Wilberforce’s conversation was meant for her niece.

“Nonsense. Trave
lling with two lovely ladies such as yourselves could never be an inconvenience,” the young man insisted. “With the three of you as my companions, I’ll be the envy of every gentleman on the train.”

“A-hem
.” Lady Wilberforce cleared her throat. “That’s enough, now, dear,” she told her son.

Cyril, whose face had become animated while suggesting the t
ravel arrangements, was quickly subdued. “Mother doesn’t like it when I grow too poetic,” he said to Violet in a low voice.

Vera felt the silken net fall and knew they were trapped. There was no way to turn down the Wilberforces
’ offer without giving offense. They had enjoyed the Wilberforces’ hospitality for over two weeks, so there was no rejecting it now. Mortals could be so tricky when they wanted to be, she noted. But Vera was determined that they would not become further entangled with these nonmagical beings. All she had to do was stay vigilant, providing Mr. Wilberforce with no opportunity to ensnare her niece. She knew what was good for Violet, whether the child liked it or not.

“Let us have champagne to celebrate our last night
in X,” Lady Wilberforce declared. “Cyril, ring for some glasses and our finest bottle.”

“None for me, thank you,” Miss Tartlette said. “I’m afraid it goes straight to my head.”

“Oh, that is a shame,” Lady Wilberforce said with a disappointed frown. “Perhaps it’s the bubbles. But we’ll pour you a glass anyway, so you won’t be left out when we toast our journey. That would be bad luck.”

Vera had to comply and take a small sip of bubbly when Cyril made a rather formal toast about the sadness of friends departing at a journey’s end. Then Mr. B felt compelled to make a toast and then Professor Yog. By the time dinner was finally served, Vera felt quite light headed.

As the meal wore on, Vera wanted nothing more in the world than to lie down and rest her head. Mr. B was quite enthusiastic in his conversation, amply paying for the cost of adding unexpected guests to the dinner table with lively talk.

“Violet,” Miss Tartlette hissed across the table for the fourth or fifth time, finally drawing the girl’s attention away from the Sorcerer.

“What is it, Vera?” Violet asked, fearing there was another problem with her aunt’s boots.

“I’m feeling just the smallest bit unwell and need you to come with me to my room,” the elder Witch said.

Violet had no desire to leave the conversation of the table, especially it being their last night, but her aunt did, indeed, look quite pale. It would have been unkind to send her up to her room all by herself, especially after she had expressed the wish for company.

Chapter 12: Third Time’s a Charm

The next morning was a blur of half
-packed trunks and hurrying through breakfast. Vera was excessively unwell, and Violet found that she had to do everything for her aunt. “Might we just wait another day or two?” the girl suggested as she tried to shut the last trunk and the trunk resisted. “I’m sure the Wilberforces will understand.”

“No
.” Vera was adamant. “We must take our leave of Mr. Wilberforce and his mother. As quickly as possible. The sooner we begin our journey, the sooner it will end.” Miss Tartlette could not imagine that even Mr. Wilberforce would have the audacity to propose to her niece twice in two days.

Violet’s brow puckered as she sat on the trunk’s lid, forcing it closed. “Perhaps we could stay in X for a few days and then catch the train. We might even see if the Belladonna has reopened.”

“What a charming idea,” Lady Wilberforce said, entering the bedroom unbidden. “I was just coming to check on you and couldn’t help but overhear. I’ve heard so much from you ladies and Mr. B about pensione living that I have a yearning to try my hand at it. And if Miss Tartlette is unwell, then...”

“No, no, I am quite well enough to travel,” Miss Tartlette insisted, cutting the lady off midstream.
“It’s only a pounding in my head and a roiling in my stomach. Violet can quite easily make me up a draft once we are on the train.”

Mr. B and Professor Yog had stayed so late the previous evening that Lady Wilberforce had insisted they spend the night.
She was now inviting the two gentlemen to accompany Cyril and the ladies back to the city by carriage. It was a very fine day, and while breakfasting with the family, Mr. B had expressed his desire to enjoy the open air. But Lady Wilberforce appeared so alarmed at the thought of anyone leaving her home by way of broomstick in broad daylight that they ended up having to accept the offer of the coach lest they give offense. It occurred to Violet that if the Wilberforces’ wine cellar was a little less well stocked, they may have found that people would be a little less concerned about offending them.

Time was running short as they all piled into the pumpkin carriage, parasols and bandboxes making the space a little more crowded than anticipated. Professor Yog made no apologies about letting people know that he felt thoroughly jostled. With a small trap following behind to haul the trunks, they set off for X and the station.

Most of the party was returning to X city proper with some trepidation. The last any of them had been there was during the worst of the riots. That memory loomed large in everyone’s imaginations giving them concern as to what they might find.

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Mr. B said in an attempt to reassure the travel
lers. “Most of X has been put quite right already. You’d probably never guess that there’d been any trouble at all.”

And Mr. B was correct. To Violet’s
, and everyone else’s, amazement, X appeared as it had on the day of their arrival. Structures of granite and glass sparkled in the morning sun. Spires stretched for the sky and disappeared into the clouds. Buildings that had been burnt to the timbres and left for rubble had sprung from the soil again with no apparent damage. “Isn’t it wonderful when Crafters are allowed to ply their trade without concealment,” Mr. B said as the ladies marvelled, their heads bobbing in the carriage windows.

Violet spied a brightly colored building about the size of a dollhouse that had been erected alongside the road. The little doors and windows all glowed with the illumination of fairy lights
, and there were flowers and fancies piled all around the little edifice. “Mr. B, what is that?” the girl asked as they rolled past.

“A shrine for one of the fallen,” was his reply, the smile fading from his face. “I’m afraid hundreds have been erected all around the city.”

“Were those faye lights?” Vera asked, frowning at the little house.

“Yes,
when the shrines are new the faye find them quite habitable.”

“Is that quite safe?” the Witch wanted to know. “For the
neighbourhood, I mean.” When she was a young girl, a fairy took up residence in her mother’s hair receiver and gave them no end of trouble.

“The fairies find making mischief much more challenging in X,” Professor Yog told them from his creaking corner of the carriage.

“It’s not like in England,” Mr. B went on, “where there’s always a farmer to torment or a shop girl to enchant. They usually only stay at the shrines while the flowers are fresh.”

“You mean people eventually stop bringing them?” Violet asked with some surprise.

“Grief is something people eventually want to get past,” the Sorcerer said in a kindly voice, taking into account Violet’s tender age. “It’s only with the loss of a child that grief stays forever fresh.”

The occupants of the carriage were solemn for a few moments. It didn’t feel right to keep chatting after such a statement. But then Violet happened to glance out the window again and caught sight of the street on which the Pensione Belladonna resided. “Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “Down there. Cyril, can we please drive down there?”

“Whatever for?” Cyril asked, squinting, a bit mystified, in the direction she indicated.

“That’s where our pensione is. Or at least where it used to be before the riots. I just want to see what happened to it. I mean, I know it was in ruins the last time we were here, but I’d just like to see. Maybe the Signora had it rebuilt or something.”

“Now, now,” her aunt clucked as she rapidly flapped at the air with her lace fan. “We’ll miss our train for sure.”

“Oh, please. It’s not more than a block out of our way,” Violet pleaded. “We’re not so very, very late for the train. Are we?” She turned back to Cyril.

After a surreptitious glance at his mother, the young man cleared his throat. “I do believe we can spare just a minute. If only to please you,” he said quite gallantly. Vera cleared her throat uneasily as Mr. Wilberforce called to the driver and directed him down the small street.

The Pensione Belladonna stood as it was the day of Miss Popplewell and Miss Tartlette’s arrival. The smoldering ruin left by the riots had been magically transformed back into the worn
-at-the-heels boarding house that had sheltered them so admirably. “Are any of the guests still there?” Violet asked a bit breathlessly. “Are you still staying there, Mr. B?”

“I currently have other quarters,” the Sorcerer replied. “I do believe the Misses Fate are still there. If I remember correctly
, Miss Hopkins has left for Budapest.”

“She has,” Vera assured them all. “I’ve had a letter from her saying so.”

“The proof is always in the postmark,” grumbled Professor Yog.

After gazing at the building for another few seconds, the girl ventured, “What about the Count Du Monde and his son? Are they still around?” causing her aunt to make another disgruntled noise in the back of her throat.

“I’m afraid I have no information there,” replied Mr. B. “I’m not sure of their whereabouts.”

“Are you satisfied? Shall we press on?” Cyril asked after examining his pocket watch.

“Yes, I am very satisfied,” Violet declared. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Happy to do it,” the young man said, doing his best to appear debonair and causing Aunt Vera to make a third sound of disapproval.

As the carriage pulled away, Violet craned her neck for one last look at the pensione. “I wonder,” she whispered to herself. “Is he still there? Or lost forever in this great big world.”

They made the train with only seconds to spare. In fact, Lady Wilberforce’s man had to liberally spread around the dunkets to get all of the luggage loaded. “I can never understand why they won’t just simply hold the train if they know people are coming,” the lady complained as they were bustled into a first-class car.

“Perhaps because then people down the track would complain that the train wasn’t on time,” suggested Mr. B, handing Cyril the last of the bandboxes. Professor Yog chose to wait on the platform, having no wish to be inadvertently carried away in the crush.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Lady Wilberforce conceded with a sniff. “But you’d think they’d take into consideration just exactly whom they are waiting for.”

Her response left Mr. B at a loss for words. Fortunately
, right then the whistle blew, signaling that the train was about to depart. “Mr. Wilberforce, ladies,” Mr. B said with a slight bow. “I bid you adieu and hope to see you all in England again very, very soon.”

The travel
lers all called out their farewells to the genial Sorcerer, but he was hurrying to disembark from the train, so it was doubtful he heard them at all.

The train started with a lurch, causing Miss Tartlette to lean back in her seat and close her eyes. “Thank Goddess,” she murmured.

“Are you still unwell,” Lady Wilberforce asked with some concern.

“I’ll be fine,” Vera told her. “I just need to shut my eyes.” Turning to her niece
, she said, “Violet, will you be a dear and mix me up one of your drafts. I don’t know which is worse, my head or my stomach.”

“Of course, Vera,” the girl said
, leaping to her feet and hunting for the black leather travelling case where they carried a few dried herbs and powders. Cyril got it down for her from where it was tucked overhead. “Do you want something for sleeping as well?” she asked as she surveyed the contents of the little vials individually tucked in the satchel. “I’m afraid you didn’t have a very good night.”